


Between heaven and hell

by Builder



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angst, But if you've got slash goggles..., Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, References to Drugs, Sickfic, This is friendship not romance, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 14:20:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13032975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: Spencer's out of prison and struggling.  Then Hotch pays him a visit.





	Between heaven and hell

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Doclover2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doclover2/gifts).



> This is probably gonna post a while after I write it, but I have the shakes so bad right now. So this is gonna be fabulous…
> 
> Time-wise, this is set around the tail end of 13x01 and before 13x02 (after Spencer gets out of jail and after Scratch is apprehended, but before Spencer’s officially back to work). I can’t remember if the show actually leaves this window to make it a feasible missing moment, but that’s what I’m thinking as I’m writing this.
> 
> This is not intended to be romantic (my preference is for asexual Spencer), but I get that it has vibes a little bit. So, take it where you will if you want.

The knock on the apartment door catches Spencer off guard.  He’s about to tip back a handful of ibuprofen and chase it with cold coffee, but he pauses before the tablets drop onto his tongue. 

 

Who would be coming to see him now?  His friends from the BAU have maintained their visitation schedule even though he’s back at home, so he’s come to expect Penelope, Emily, and JJ on their respective Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.  Derek brings Pizza on Saturday nights. 

 

But it’s two in the afternoon on a Tuesday, and Spencer’s supposed to be alone.  Alone to read books and watch movies and peruse news articles until something sets him off. 

 

The person outside knocks again, igniting a chain reaction of pain receptors in Spencer’s head.  He decides to swallow the painkillers in his hand before chancing standing up.  He knows five pills is too many.  But he also knows they won’t put a dent in his headache. 

 

Spencer sighs when the third knock sounds.  He prepares to face the errant delivery person or confused neighbor, trying to think of what he’ll say.  Spencer’s not sure he has a voice.  He’s barely been speaking lately.

 

He undoes the latch, not impressed with the tremor in his fingers.  “What?” Spencer rasps, looking through the tall person on his doorstep before taking in who it is.

 

“Reid?”

 

Spencer blinks.  Wonders for a second if he’s hallucinating.  “Hotch.”

 

“Yeah, I…”  The words seem to die in Hotch’s throat as he takes in Spencer’s appearance.  Spencer’s aware that he doesn’t look well.  The pallor of his skin and the bags under his eyes started being old news around the time shaving and showering had dropped off the list of priorities.  “I heard…”

 

“D’you want to come in?” Spencer asks.

 

Hotch doesn’t say anything, just follows Spencer inside.  The coffee table is a mess of dirty cups and painkillers and sleeping pills. Spencer glances at it warily and screws the cap on a bottle of Jack Daniels before collapsing back into his nest on the couch.  He normally cleans up a little if he knows he’s going to have a guest.

 

He expects Hotch to take the chair on the other side of the living room, but he doesn’t.  Hotch perches beside him on the sofa.  There’s space between them, so it’s not smothering, but Spencer’s still nervous.

 

“I thought you were in witness protection,” Spencer says.

 

“Officially, yes,” Hotch affirms.  “But I won’t be much longer.”

 

“It’s a risk.  To be here.”  It can’t happen again.  Someone he cares about getting into trouble because of him.

 

“I couldn’t just not come,” Hotch says.  “I wanted to come immediately when I heard what happened, but…” he shakes his head.  “It’s safe enough now.  And I don’t think you’re doing well.”

 

“I’m ok.”  The reply is automatic.  And not technically a lie.  He’s getting by.  Staying off drugs.  The illegal kind, at least.

 

“Reid…” Hotch shakes his head.  “You’ve been through a traumatic experience.  Not your first traumatic experience.  You don’t have to just deal with it.”

 

“I don’t know.  I’ve got people coming by four days a week.  I have support and everything.”

 

“But they don’t get to see what I’m seeing right now,” Hotch ventures.

 

Spencer lets out his breath.  He can’t lie.  Not anymore.  Not to Hotch.  He barely nods, and his headache punishes him for it.

 

“It’s ok to ask for help.”

 

“I’m…but…” an unexpected lump of tears rises in Spencer’s throat.  “I’m getting so much help already.”

 

“But not with what you need.”  Hotch drops his hand on Spencer’s knee.  “Tell me what’s going on.  Really.”

 

It’s going to sound like he’s a wreck.  And maybe he is.  He can’t sleep when he wants to sleep.  And the rest of the time he can’t stay awake.  He can barely stomach anything.  He can’t concentrate.  His head feels close to exploding with migraine-level achiness and pent up frustration. 

 

“Reid,” Hotch prompts.

 

“I…”  Spencer’s voice cracks.  “Just… I don’t feel well.”  He swallows hard.  “I feel…really bad.”

 

“It’s not your fault.”

 

“I know,” Spencer says.  Tears begin to slip from his eyes, and he wipes them roughly on the sleeve of his sweatshirt.  “It’s not my fault, but…but…”  His vocabulary, hell, the entire English language lacks the exact words to vocalize how he feels.  “It’s not my fault I got set up or drugged or arrested.  But I was there.  Doing something illegal.  So, it is my fault.  In the end I can’t blame anyone but myself.”

 

“No, it’s not.”  Hotch says firmly.  “It was the right thing, even if it was against the law.”

 

“They only gave me cocaine once, but I can’t stop the cravings.”  Spencer scrubs at his trembling hands over his eyes.  “That’s my fault.  I should never have used in the first place…”

 

“You’re still clean, though?” Hotch asks, the clutter on the coffee table apparently nonwithstanding.

 

Spencer nods.  “I don’t care why I started or how long ago it was.  I just can’t stop.  I can’t stand it.”

 

His whole body is shaking.  His head, his shoulders, his diaphragm.  Spencer’s not sure if he’s about to sob or throw up.  He’s lost his grip on gravity, and he feels himself tipping forward.

 

“It’s ok.”  Hotch’s shoulder materializes under Spencer’s chin, and strong arms wrap around him.  “You don’t have to be alright right now.”

 

Spencer sniffs, but it does nothing to stem the snot and tears intent on running down his face.

 

“Ok,” Hotch soothes again.  “When is the last time you slept?  Really slept.”

 

Spencer doesn’t know.  Possibly not in this lifetime.  Definitely before he left for Mexico.  He shrugs into Hotch’s chest.

 

“You need to get some rest.”

 

“I can’t.”  Something’s always there, hovering behind his eyelids.  Scratch, Cat, Gideon…  He hasn’t been able to escape the haunting.

 

“You can’t live with exhaustion like this,” Hotch says.

 

Spencer screws his eyes shut.  “Maybe I don’t want to.”  It’s barely a whisper.

 

Hotch sighs against him.  “Reid, I understand.  I haven’t felt the things you’re feeling, but I know what you’re going through.  I know it’s hard.” He pauses for a moment.  “Would it help if someone stayed with you?”

 

Someone to witness him wake up screaming every few hours?  Spencer’s first thought is to vehemently refuse.  But he’s so tired. 

 

He shrugs.  Swallows.  Nods. 

 

“Ok.  Good.”  A fatherly tone comes through in Hotch’s voice.  Spencer imagines Hotch saying the same thing to Jack.  He feels more pathetic. 

 

“You should lie down for a while.  I’ll stay, make sure nothing’s going to hurt you…”

 

Spencer can barely listen.  Nausea rises dangerously.  “I feel kind of sick…”

 

Hotch sits with him on the bathroom floor.  Tears mix with dry heaves, and eventually Spencer can’t tell what’s what.  He hunches over the toilet, shivering, until Hotch pulls him back. 

 

“You’re done, ok?  There’s nothing left.  You need to sleep.”

 

Spencer drags his feet down the hall to his room and falls on top of his bed.  The rumpled sheets are cold. 

 

“Rest.”  Hotch pulls the trash can up to the side of the bed, then unfolds the comforter over Spencer’s curled legs.  “I’ll be here when you wake up.”


End file.
